


Could've been worse

by SKBones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SKBones/pseuds/SKBones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock pushes John in a river, for a case. And then has to prevent John from developing hypothermia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could've been worse

It wasn’t so bad, John thought, as he felt his back hit the water. Almost calming, pleasant.  
Or not.  
The water filled in around his shoulders. It was so close to his face. He tried to thrust upwards, making splashes with his hands which did nothing but spray water around. Soon his head was under, and the water was everywhere; in his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He’d been trained in the army not to panic and gasp in water, so he managed to hold his breath. It was all dark now. Like hell. Like being back, ten years ago, on his first army mission. Fear. Each heartbeat seemed to take conscious effort.  
He oxygen-starved brain tried to take in what had happened. Sherlock had pushed him in the Thames. Okay, it had been to stop him getting shot at, but John was still angry. He was going to die in here; in this murky, muddy river, while Sherlock and Lestrade chased after some stupid criminal.  
Then there were set of strong hands on his jacket, pulling him back to the surface and out onto the concrete. The sunlight was blinding, and he coughed and spluttered, eyes shut and chest heaving. Air had never tasted so good, he thought, as he gasped as much in as he could.  
“John?!” It was Sherlock.  
John lifted his head and squinted at the figure above him. The sun shadowed Sherlock’s face and he could just see a mass of crazy, curly hair.  
“Is he alright?” It was another voice. Lestrade.  
“I’m fine.” John rasped, brushing water out of his eyes and giving a few more rattled coughs.  
Sherlock shrugged off his coat and wrapped it tightly around John’s shoulders.  
“Get him home, warm him up and I’ll text if there are any more updates.” Lestrade told Sherlock. “Here, I’ll give you a hand getting a taxi.”  
Sherlock helped John to his feet, taking some of his weight. It was a relief; John’s limbs were weak and shaky, and he knew he would fall if Sherlock moved away. He let his head rest on Sherlock’s shoulder and relaxed as Lestrade led them to the main road.

“I apologise for pushing you in the river, John.” Sherlock said as they bumbled across town in the back of the cab. John was tucked under Sherlock’s arm, and the taxi driver had kindly given them a blanket. It did little to warm John, who’s teeth were now chattering so violently he couldn’t reply. Tiny beads of water were dripping from his hair onto his neck, and each felt like a needle of ice piercing his skin.  
The journey was only ten minutes long, but it felt like a decade. When they finally reached Baker Street, John was beyond any movement. Fortunately, Sherlock was stronger than he looked and he lifted him effortlessly into his arms. He tipped the driver, handed back the blanket and carried John to the door.  
Lestrade had obviously rang Mrs Hudson, because the door flew open and her worried face appeared, white and wobbly.  
“Is he okay?” She asked, looking at John, who felt like a baby in Sherlock’s arms.  
“He’s currently fine, Mrs Hudson. However, he is at risk of hypothermia.”  
Mrs Hudson gasped and stepped back to allow them in.  
“Shall I call an ambulance, Sherlock?” She whispered.  
“No, no. He just needs to be warmed up. A simple exchange of body heat should do it.”  
Well, it could be worse, John thought.  
“Right.” Mrs Hudson replied, looking a little confused. “Can you get him up the stairs okay?”  
“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine.”  
Sherlock tackled the stairs one at a time, slowly. It was surprising he could manage it, actually. John was at least two stone heavier than him, and he was shivering so profusely Sherlock was vibrating with every step. Eventually they reached the flat. Sherlock carried John straight to his bedroom, and set him down gently on to his feet.  
“Can you stand?” He asked.  
John nodded in the affirmative, and Sherlock gently removed his arm. John wobbled slightly but stayed upright.  
“Can you undress yourself?” Sherlock asked.  
“I c-can’t even m-move m-my a-armsss.” John stuttered.  
“Okay.”  
Sherlock’s brain had gone into overdrive (even more so than it normally was). He’d never seen John’s chest, let alone any other… parts of his anatomy. And now he had to strip him down and warm him up. Whilst restraining primary bodily functions which often occur when in the presence of someone you’ve fancied half to death for several months.  
“Okay.” Sherlock repeated.  
“J-just g-get me out of t-these b-bloody c-clothes, Sh-Sherlock.” John hissed, and Sherlock nodded.  
He unzipped John’s black jacket and pushed it gently off of his shoulders. It flopped to the floor. The cream jumper John had put on that morning was now a murky brown, and it hung from John’s frame like an oversized apron.  
“I’ll buy you another.” Sherlock promised, sliding his hands underneath the soggy wool and lifting it up. John tried to raise his arms and winced. The jumper, however, was surprisingly stretchy, and it came off relatively easily. Luckily, John was wearing a shirt, and the buttons came undone simply enough. Everything was soaking wet. As more and more of John’s pale, perfect chest was revealed, Sherlock’s hands started shaking, and something stirred in the pit of his stomach.  
Calm the fuck down, Sherlock told himself, pushing back the blue material and revealing the scar which inked out across John’s shoulder. It was red and puckered now, and shivering like the rest of him.  
John was still muscular from his army days; his shoulders broad and his chest tensed from shivering.  
“H-hurry up.” John moaned, his lips a light shade of blue.  
Sherlock dipped his hands to John’s jeans, his hands shaking undeniably now. There was a coil of desire in the pit of his stomach, and it knotted tighter. It was unbelievable hard to undo John’s belt. That wasn’t the only thing that was hard, either.  
Sherlock swore under his breath and sucked in a lungful of air to try and calm himself. If he couldn’t get his arousal under control, it was going to prove embarrassing in a few minutes, when he would have to take his own clothes off to heat John’s body.  
He instead concentrated on pushing the link out of John’s belt.  
“Sh-shoes.” John whispered.  
“Sorry.”  
Sherlock knelt at John’s feet and untied the laces, then lifted his leg and slid the shoe off of his foot. John never wore socks, so Sherlock was unsurprised to find his foot was bare. He took the other one off, and stood back up to pull the belt off. Without the belt, John’s jeans were quite loose, and easy for Sherlock to slip a finger inside and unbutton them.  
Unfortunately, the notion of sliding John’s zip down and guiding his trousers gently down over his hips did nothing for the throbbing erection which was now bulging uncomfortably at the front of his trousers.  
John, of course, was not stupid. He had noticed the shaking in Sherlock’s hands; how his pupils were so wide that his whole eye looked black, and now, as Sherlock knelt to unhook John’s jeans from his feet, they caught each other’s eyes. Sherlock could see in that one look that John knew. John’s eyes were wide with curiosity.  
“It’s a natural reaction.” Sherlock said carefully. “Usually when undressing someone, it means sex. Sorry.”  
“Don’t.” John whispered. “B-be sorry. If I w-wasn’t so sodding c-cold I’d probably feel the same way t-too.”  
“About me?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as though he didn’t believe what John was saying.  
John almost laughed out loud. “Of c-course. For a g-genius, you aren’t half s-stupid.”  
“Oh.” It was all Sherlock could manage, but he smiled, and it was a true smile.  
“Now g-get me out of these f-fucking pants.”  
They both laughed, and Sherlock stood, hooked his fingers beneath the waist band of John’s boxers and pulled them down. They fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them.  
Sherlock helped John into the bed and tucked the covers up and under his chin. He looked warmer, now, tucked up in Sherlock’s bed, only his face visible.  
“Your turn now.” John said.  
Sherlock shrugged himself out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor with John’s clothes. It landed with a clunk; God knows what amount of rubbish was in there. He un-tucked his shirt and undid the buttons painfully slowly.  
John watched all the time. Sherlock made sure all the buttons were undone before he let John even catch a peek of flesh. Then, quickly, he shimmied it off of him. Sherlock’s chest, like the rest of him, was long and thin and pale, although also undeniably muscular. There were a few scatterings of dark hair, which disappeared beneath his trousers.  
Sherlock, for one of the first times in his life, was embarrassed. He usually couldn’t give a toss what anyone else thought of him. But now, with John’s eyes raking over every inch of his exposed chest, he felt like running away. He’d never been happy with how he looked. He was too tall, too skinny, not strong enough. He felt like a teenage boy. Yet John’s eyes were filled with a kind of hunger, the same hunger that Sherlock had felt for John.  
It was more difficult to get his trousers undone. They were so tight anyway, that the added pressure from his erection made it about ten times harder to undo the button. Eventually they came apart. He didn’t watch John as he pulled the trousers down.  
“No pants. Interesting.” John mused. “Do you ever wear them?”  
“Only on special occasions.” Sherlock murmured back, a twinkle in his eye.  
John smiled.  
“Get in, then.” He said, wriggling over to allow Sherlock room.  
Sherlock sat on the bed and slid his legs under. He turned so that he was facing John, and they were so close that their noses were almost touching. Gently, tentatively, Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on John’s hip, pulling him close.  
Sherlock’s erection brushed John’s thigh, and it made him gasp in surprise. John had stopped shivering now, and laid a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. It was a mutual agreement then, an unsaid concurrence. John’s nose slid over Sherlock’s and their lips touched, barely, beautifully. John pulled back then, maybe to check Sherlock didn’t mind, more likely just to look at his face again.  
Sherlock’s eyes were a dark green in the silhouetted light. They were staring right at John, the pupils wide and imploring. John let his hand slide down, along Sherlock’s jaw line and into the crease of his collar bone.  
“You hands are still cold.” Sherlock noted.  
“I was pushed in a river.” John hissed, but he allowed Sherlock to take them and put them between his own, planting a small kiss on each.  
It was several minutes before either of them spoke again. If Sherlock felt the same way as John did, he could barely believe any of this was even happening. John cleared his throat. He had to make sure.  
“Is this-” He broke off. “Does this mean we’re… together?”  
“John,” Sherlock’s baritone voice broke through John like a melody, and it sent a shiver down his spine, which, this time, wasn’t to do with being cold. “We’ve been together since we met.”  
“Right.” John replied. “It’s just taken us six months to realise it.”  
“Correct.” Sherlock sealed the word with a firm kiss, which John reciprocated.  
He was warmer now. Laying this close to Sherlock, feeling his whole body pressed tightly to his own was warming in itself. When Sherlock ran his fingers over his hips, down across his outer thighs, and back up, he felt arousal bubble in the pit of his stomach. By the time Sherlock had kissed along his shoulder, down his chest and onto his belly, he was hard. With a gentle purr of approval, Sherlock came back up to nibble at John’s ear, slotting himself between the smaller mans legs. Their erections brushed and John let out a grunt of need, which became a long moan as Sherlock eased his weight down. Feeling like he should at least do something other than lie there, completely paralysed with pleasure, he reached down a took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, stroking gently. Sherlock rutted against him, eyes squeezed shut.  
“I’m not going to last long.” He gasped.  
“I wouldn’t worry-oh!” John cut off as their bodies slid together.  
Sherlock was that much taller than John, it meant for their erections to meet, he had to grip the headboard, John a whole head bellow him.  
Their movement became erratic, each trying to match the other’s insane rhythm, Sherlock’s elbow bumping the wall with every thrust.  
“Oh God! Sherlock!” It was all John could do as the climax hit him.  
Sherlock wasn’t far behind. He let out a small grunt and let go of the headboard to kiss John, as his body pulsed and shook.

Then they were laying in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving with deep gulps of air, grins plastered across their faces.

“Well, that was worth falling in the Thames for.” John muttered.


End file.
